Un Amour Maintenant Disparu
by Dean the Russian Machine
Summary: Mr. Bonnefoy, a kind, rich man is suffering because of his attachment to someone he used to know, but is still hurting from his previous lovers. He deals with confusion and hardships, as well as an incapability to get romantically or sexually attached to people, the struggle as far worse than imaginable as he suffers through this kind of pain.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Hours ticking, the hand on the clock moved slowly. François would sigh to himself as his back was pressed against his wall. It wasn't easy opening various stores. It wasn't easy easy running a company and business that sold all over. He had wanted to do this ever since he was little. Very little. He went to school, got good grades, take culinary, food preparations, food science, as well as cosmetology classes all throughout his high school years. After graduating with a diploma, he went to culinary schools and baking schools, got several degrees for cooking, became a Chef de Cuisine, as well as a professional Baker and Pastry maker. He then went to cosmetology and got his degree as a hairdresser, skin care specialist, and nail technician. He worked day and night, cooking and schooling for cosmetology. But was worth it. Now François was a multimillionaire, opening up businesses of his own. He owned his own restaurant, candy industry, baking and pastry industry, cafe, and was now opening up beauty parlours and salons.

François sighed. This week had been rough. He got his permit this week, almost lost his construction crew, as well as being extremely busy with opening up his promising parlour as soon as possible. He almost lost his construction crew, though he got his weekly paycheck and his permit, as well as a breathtaking collision. This week had been rough in La Rochelle.

* * *

 _He was rushing, pacing, almost running. Breathless, papers and blueprints in hand, folders, his satchel hanging from his shoulder. He was tired. Too tired but he had to keep going. Permit in hand, money in his 'man purse', and his hair was tied back once again. Long, cream coloured hair, silky, François's glasses were falling off, he wasn't paying attention. His mind was racing, he wasn't stopping, he was almost there. He walked faster and faster until he felt something hit his chest. The blow knocked the wind from his chest, took him back and forced him to the ground. He looked up, and eyes of ocean, cerulean blue met eyes of a beautiful emerald and buff yellow hair. François gasped a little as he felt his heart jump, eyes wide, a blush spreading itself across his cheeks as his sugar pink lips parted slightly at the sigt of him. He seemed to have a small, yet thick frame._

 _"I'm sorry, but I have to go!"_

 _A lovely, thick British accent to compliment his complexion. He nearly melted at the sound. He looked to be in more of a rush than he was. He watched him hurry off. He too got up quickly, gathered his scattered papers and mind and hurried back to his restaurant where he met his impatient construction crew. He laid out the plan and they got started, but all on his mind was that handsome Brit with that charming face, voice, everything about him._

* * *

François sighed to himself as he looked out the window of the dusty, quite empty, cold room. He ran his fingers through his cream hair as he leaned his head back. He let his eyes flutter shut as they dark sky was turning various shades of pastel pink, he let his lips part as the smell of rose infused tea filled the dark, empty room.

 _"Here we go again..."_


	2. Nothing Could Have Ever

Pink rose lips. Blue veins. Blue. That colour always seemed to stick to the Frenchman and sink down to his stomach and twist, pull, tear him apart. The pastel sky was staying, it was warm and inviting, but the crisp air was bitter. It made François want to curl up and snuggle against someone. He wished he could lie cozy in his long sleeved sweaters that went to his fingertips, and his black pants that were really soft, as well as a pair of fuzzy stockings to keep him warm. He wished he could curl up with someone like that and watch a movie or just listen to music and sleep. He wished someone would love him like that. But no, back when he dated Alfred, he got quite the opposite.

Alfred was the last lover he ever had, since then, he had to get comfort from Antonio. Alfred had been arrested about ten years ago under several charges. First degree rape, attempted murder, harassment, stalking, domestic violence, and abuse. François had dealt with Alfred for years, but was relieved, yet traumatized when Alfred finally got caught. He went to therapy for many years and kept under a weekly check. God he hated it, loathed it. But as he looked back on all of it, he felt a beautiful sadness run through him as he craved for a body to stand right there and hold him. He dug through his pocket and out fell his phone, business cards, wallet, and a small piece of trash. He sighed as he picked up his stuff from the floor and put it back in his pocket, keeping his phone in his hand. A rose gold case with roses on it. The pitter-patter of the tapping of his slender fingers echoed lightly throughout the room as he browsed through contacts.

 _"Antonio...Antonio..."_

His lips were trembling as he could feel his vision go blurry. Tears burned him, hurt him, threatening to fall as they welled. François's whisper of the Spaniard's name rang in his ears and his mind. Pain in his chest grew and grew. Yes, François knew he was grown, but wasn't it okay to be lonely. A screaming silence filled the house as he finally found Antonio's number. He held the phone to his ear as it rang.

 _Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring..._

"Hola, I will be right over."

François loved that about Antonio, he knew if he called, there was something wrong and he'd be right over. He was like a best friend that was almost always in touch. Fortunately enough for him, Antonio wasn't all that far. François held himself and waited. He let his eyes flutter shut.

* * *

Antonio grabbed a few things and was now rushing through his house. He left Lovino a note and now he had his keys in hand. He bit his lip gently as he rushed to get in his car. He started it and then his car wouldn't start. The Spaniard's hand tightened into a fist as he kept trying to start the car.

"No _no_! Not _now_ you _puta_. I swear!"

He growled as he kept trying. It wasn't worth it. He slammed down his keys and shoved his phone and wallet deep in his pocket as he rushed over to his nearby garage. He pulled down a bicycle from a couple of nails it hung on, checked the tires. It was good. He pulled it out quickly and he got on. Antonio began pedaling, staying on his side of the road as he pedaled quickly to get to his friend. Antonio was willing to do so much for François. Cars whizzed past him as he made his way. The air was chilly, cutting, sharp. Luckily enough for him, he lived right on the edge of Spain, and La Rochelle was that far. He whizzed through streets and it wasn't long until he made it to the border. He went right past and continued on his journey to François.

Antonio was always willing to help his friends in need.

* * *

François began to worry as minutes ticked on. Waiting. When he had given up on Antonio actually coming over, he heard the door open and heavy breathing. He looked up and saw the tall, muscular Spaniard walking towards him. He blushed as saw Antonio fall to his knees before him. François felt his strong arms around his torso, his hot breath on his neck. He brought up his arms and hugged back, squeezing him gently.

 _"Thank you."_

It was all he could let past his lips. The Spaniard moved so he was now sitting down in front of François. He grabbed the Frenchman's hands and held them. He looked him in the eyes, not looking past them, but caring, staring deep into his eyes. He smiled a little.

"What's wrong?"

François couldn't respond, he would just look down. He was lonely, tired, afraid, and in need of help. He pursed his lips and let his hands free of Antonio's grip. He rubbed his arms and he hugged himself once more. How could he explain it? How could he explain the fears of Alfred getting out of prison? How could he explain the fear of failure? How could he? Scenarios played out through his mind. What if? What if? What if? What if he was sent back to therapy? What if Antonio thought he was crazy? So he sat there, screaming with silence and nothing to say. With each second ticking by, Antonio thought more and more of what he could possibly do. He thought and decided to just hold François there. Antonio crawled to the wall and once he was there, he pressed his back up against it and he pulled the Frenchman to his chest. He felt the other against him.

François was taken back as he was pulled into the Spaniard. His ear was pressed against the white cloth of Antonio's button-down. His breaths were quaky, his fingers trembling as he was held there. He nuzzled against his friend's chest in silence. Curling up into a small ball, he cuddled up against his best friend and was eventually lulled to sleep as the Spaniard stroked his hair gently.

* * *

Alfred counted away the minutes. _Waiting. Waiting. Waiting._ Nonetheless he didn't regret what he did. That burning image of that man who had protected François ate away at his skin. That Spanish bastard always got in his way. During and not during his relationship with François. He looked down at the stone floor behind the door of his cell. He blinked slowly. He continued waiting.

 _Yao_.

When would he get here? He was supposed to bail him out. He drummed his fingers lightly on his knee as he closed his eyes. When he heard the jingle of keys and a tap on his door, he looked up. Standing before him was a warden, not anyone of importance to Alfred anyway. The warden unlocked the cuffs and he led Alfred down a hallway. Alfred, being smart, didn't say a word. He learned that talking got you in trouble. When he saw Yao and heard the warden walk behind him, chills went down his spine. The warden's deep, husky voice broke the silence.

"You're free to go."

Alfred smiled to himself as he began to walk slowly.


End file.
